Crescendo
by Tiger Lily Roar
Summary: Running from friend and foe alike, Nightwing realizes that there is no running from the past. (Sequel to: Depths-AU, Event Horizon & Summit)


**Author's Notes:** This will be the forth and final installment of my "Depths AU" Series. If you haven't read the other three parts, I suggest you do that starting with "Depths", then "Event Horizon", then "Summit."A big thank you to everyone who's been following the series and leaving me Reviews and adding the stories to their Favorites. Means a lot that everyone still likes my stuff.

Also, a huge thank you once again to the best Beta out there: Fiona! Really, I have no idea what I'd do with out her! Thank-you! Thank-you! Thank-you!

Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** Nothing recognizable is mine, and I promise to put them back in their proper place when I'm done with them. Some of them even in one piece!

* * *

**PANAMA CITY, FLORIDA**

**JULY 01, 05:20 EST**

The old man was always an early riser, even in the summer months when the winter camp was broken and the show was on tour. The caretaker of the grounds enjoyed these long, quiet weeks where the acres of land outside the city were easily maintained and there was little work for him to do. It was a peaceful retirement and he earned a decent wage doing practically nothing.

However, this morning was different. He was awake nearly a full hour before normal. Something outside the solitary trailer he inhabited had disturbed his rest.

The sun was just blushing the horizon as he climbed out of bed and made his way down the narrow hall to the door. It had been hot last night and he had left the heavier door open to allow the breeze off the Gulf to cool the interior. It was probably the only reason he heard whatever - or whoever - was outside.

He was standing to the side of the door, reaching for the double-barrelled shotgun he kept propped against the wall, scanning the immediate area for the source of the noise that had woke him. He saw it, about two hundred feet from his trailer, a shadow hunched over and digging into the gravel where one of the other trailer's had been parked. The figure was hunched over, kneeling on the stones, using his hands to push aside the rocks and claw into the dirt.

The door was surprisingly quiet as he pushed it open and descended the metal stairs to the ground. The shotgun when he pumped it, however, was not quiet at all and the crouched shadow stopped. "This is private property, so I guess that means you're trespassing."

The shadow didn't move other than to turn his head slightly to be able to see the old man approaching cautiously. "Maybe, but unless you've started loading that thing I don't have much to worry about. Do I Harry?"

The retired clown stopped halfway and let the useless weapon dip toward the ground. "You know me, boy?"

There was a hint of a smile visible in the budding sunrise, a familiar smirk that tugged at the old man's memory. "We two alone will sing like birds in the cage. When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down-"**

"-And ask of thee forgiveness," Harry continued with a growing smile, "So we'll live, and pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh.** Oh my god... Dickie?"

"I haven't gone by that name since I was six years old." The young man chuckled, a sound the old clown had not heard in many years, and slowly got to his feet.

He was grown, now; a man standing where the last Harry remembered was a scrawny little boy of eight. The dark hair was the same and the familiar eyes carried an old soul as much now as they did back then. He was touching six feet, built lean with muscles and a visual agility only an acrobat could possess. It was even more readily apparent given what the youngster was wearing. Skin tight body armour in black and orange, though it was torn in places and - "Is that blood?"

Harry stalked forward and his eyes picked up the bruises and stains on the boy's face in the growing light. The man that was little Dickie Grayson held up his hand, forestalling the former clown's approach. "It's fine, Harry."

"Fine my ass!" The old man dropped the empty shotgun onto the gravel and grabbed hold of the other's face, tilting it to the left and right as he inspected the damage. Split lip, bruises on his cheek and jaw, one eye nearly swollen shut, and scabbed over cut on his exposed throat; the circus brat was a sorry sight. "Good God, Dickie, you look like you've gone a round or ten with that old gorilla we used to have!"

With a sigh, Dick took hold of Harry's hands and moved them off his face. "I really am all right, Harry. It just looks worse than it is."

"I doubt that," the old man huffed and folded his arms over his chest. "Care to tell me what you're doing here, Dickie? I haven't seen you in nearly a decade and first time I do you're looking no better than a walking corpse."

"I hid something here, about two years ago," the boy explained with a casual wave of his hand to the bare spot in the gravel pad where he had been digging. "I'm just here to get it and then I'm gone."

"Oh no." Harry shook his head and took the battered teen by the arm, tugging him toward the trailer. "That's not good enough. You're going to get cleaned up, I'm going to take a look at what you've done to yourself, and then you're going to tell me how you ended up here in that get up and looking like you do."

"Harry," Dick protested, but didn't resist the man as he was guided across the lot. "I don't have time for this. I need to be gone before-"

The kid cut himself off and Harry frowned, stopping just before the steps into his trailer. "Tell me straight, Dickie; are you in some kind of trouble?"

Another sigh exposed the young man's exhaustion and Dick nodded. "You could say that."

Harry nodded to himself. "All right, here's what we're going to do. You're going to get inside and shower, clean yourself up. While you're doing that, I'll dig up whatever it was you left here and then, depending on what you tell me, I'll let you leave and forget you were ever here, or you're going to be sticking around until I'm satisfied."

Dick seemed to contemplate the offer and a moment later, reluctantly, he nodded. "All right. It's a bag, a small canvas duffle, clothes mostly and a little money."

"And just how many of these stashes do you got?" Harry quirked an eyebrow.

The boy just shrugged. "A few. It's only about a couple of inches under the ground; I needed to be able to get to it quickly. Just didn't count on Jack adding another layer of gravel over the pad."

Harry smirked. "Glad he did. I got to see little Dickie again!"

The young man chuckled and shook his head. "Really, Harry, I don't go by that name anymore."

"Oh kid," Harry clapped him on the shoulder with an amused grin, "You will forever be little Dickie! Even when you're old and grey and I'm six feet under. Now, go get showered. I'll have your stuff waiting for you when you get out."

True to his word, ten minutes later, the dirt stained navy duffle bag was sitting on the kitchen table where Harry sat nursing a steaming cup of coffee. A second cup was across from him and he motioned to it when the kid came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist. The lack of apparel afforded Harry a close look at the battered body. Bruises new and old, and the friction burns on the boy's wrists were something he had seen all too often on Thomas Solomon's skin when the side show escape artist was tied incorrectly.

He remained silent, however, while Dick unzipped the bag and riffled through the contents. What he'd claimed was a 'little money' was five stacks of twenty dollar bills, easily equalling ten grand. A cheap, fake leather wallet was set on top of the stacks and while Dick slid on a pair of boxer-briefs beneath the towel, Harry picked up the wallet and flipped it open.

Inside were several credit cards and other items one would find in a young man's wallet, but it was the Arizona State Driver's License that had Harry pulling it out and holding it up. The picture on the license was that of the kid standing in front of him but the name- "Glen Michael Odland?"

Letting the towel drop to the floor, Dick plucked the license and wallet from the old man's hand and slid the permit back into place. "Don't ask questions you won't like the answer to, Harry."

Harry took a sip of his coffee and watched the boy pull out a relaxed pair of denim jeans and a dark tank-top. A dark blue hoodie was zipped on over top and thick socks were donned before Dick sat in a chair and started lacing up a heavy pair of black biker boots. Harry could no longer hold his tongue when a pair of slender knives was tucked into the boot's high-tops.

"Enough, Dickie." The old man reached across the table and placed a calloused hand on the other's arm. "What have you gotten yourself in to? You show up here in that getup, beat to hell and back, and I know rope burns when I see them. You're in trouble and it's obvious you've been prepared for it if you've got something like this buried where your family's old trailer use to sit during the off season. Now, I've been patient but I won't hold my tongue any more. You're running from something, and unless that fat cat that took you in a decade ago is into bondage and beatings, I want to know what. What's going on?"

"It's not Bruce." Rubbing his hand wearily across his mouth, Dick glanced over at the grizzled former clown. "I can't tell you, Harry. For your own protection the less you know the better."

Harry leaned back into his chair and set the mug aside. "Then tell me what you can."

Dick fingered his own mug but didn't move to drink any. "About a year or so ago, I got involved with some people; the wrong sort of people. The kind that you and Jimmy and Jack use to warn me about."

Harry hissed through his teeth. "Are you all sorts of stupid?! You had your own Daddy Warbucks and you still-"

"I know!" Dick snapped, scowling. "I know that, all right? I had everything I could possible want and - and I still screwed it up."

The kid sounded so broken that any anger Harry held vanished.

"I've done things, Harry," Dick shook his head, unable to meet the old man's sympathetic gaze. "Some truly horrible things and now... I've lost everything. There's no going back and the people I got messed up with, they're going to be looking for me. I can't go back, Harry. Not to Gotham, not to Bruce, not anywhere that they will be looking. I have to vanish."

The exhaustion evident beneath the bruises, Harry understood. He'd been young and stupid once, had even been in a similar position. It was what brought him to Jack Haly's door nearly forty years ago. It was a place to hide and a place to begin again. Except Haly's couldn't be that for Dickie; with his past it would be the first place someone looking for him would go. The kid was right. He had to vanish.

"You got yourself a ride?" Harry asked with a definitive nod.

"I had to steal a car back in Miami," the boy admitted with a frown. "Gas ran out about ten miles on the other side of Panama City. I ran the rest of the way."

The retired performer got up and lifted a ring of keys from a nearby hook on the wall. He tossed them to Dick. "Take my truck; I'll report it stolen in a couple of hours."

Fingers fisting around the keys, Dick shook his head. "I can't do that, Harry. I've got more gear stashed only a couple of hours from here, including a bike."

"And taking the vehicle will get you there ahead of them folks looking for you." Harry insisted as he opened a drawer and riffled through some papers. "Just don't damage it and I'll get it back in a couple of days." Finding what he was looking for, he handed a hand-written schedule to the boy. "This is Haly's itinerary for the next couple of months. I'll give him - and only him - a heads up, and if you find yourself in trouble or needing a place to hide and you're nearby, go to him. You know he'll never turn away family, no matter how long it's been since you flew with us."

Dick swallowed heavily and nodded, tucking the papers into the duffle before putting the cash back inside and zipping it closed. He stood, putting the wallet with the phony IDs in his pocket and shouldered the bag.

The clown stepped up to the teenager and held him tight. "I don't know what it is you've done that you think is so horrible, but let me tell you this: No one turns away family. That Wayne fellow, he's your family now and he'll never turn you away."

The boy returned the hug but stepped away a moment later. "Thanks Harry, but-"

"You were never here," Harry nodded in understanding. "Take care of yourself, Dickie."

**MIAMI, FLORIDA**

**JULY 3, 23:45 EST**

The plane had been moved to a police hanger until all the evidence inside could be collected, but that had been no deterrent to the cowled figure that now stood in its interior. Batman was scanning the private jet with a critical eye, scowling at the picture he was painting with the information he gathered.

Bloodied ropes were still tied to the seat closest to the cockpit, allowing the pilot sight of his captive when the door was open. The tied individual would have had his arms pulled around the back of the seat and then bound and secured to the framework of the chair.

The condition of the cockpit exposed the fight that would have taken place once the prisoner had worked himself free. Blood covered the console and parts of the windshield were cracked directly in front of the co-pilot's seat. It would have been a confined space to fight in; the danger of knocking the plane off course or dropping in altitude would have been a serious concern.

"Batman," Robin called quietly as he climbed aboard the jet. "I've got a copy of the black box recording."

Batman spun away from the cockpit and turned to his partner. "Let me hear it."

The young hero nodded and his fingers danced across the wrist-glove computer. A second later, a familiar voice sounded between them.

"_Mayday! Mayday!"_ Even with the garbled recording, there was no denying the strong voice of Nightwing._ "This is private aircraft November eight three nine whiskey papa. We've lost fuel and engine power, pilot is unconscious, and we are losing altitude!"_

The controller in the tower responded almost immediately. _"I copy you, November eight three nine whiskey papa? You said your pilot was unconscious? Is there anyone else on board?"_

_"He struck his head and it's just the two of us. I've had flight training but have not been certified."_

_"All right kid. I can talk you through this. What's your name?"_

_"Robbie Malone,"_ was the response with no hesitation.

_"I'm Kevin and together we'll get you and your bird down, all right? Now, Robbie, can you tell me what your heading is."_

_"Negative. I've got nothing; all electrical has shut down. I'm blind up here."_

_"... That's all right, Robbie. We've got you on radar at forty-eight knots southeast of the tower but you're coming in too low. What's your visual?"_

_"Descending through cloud cover; visual is zero."_

_"... You're not having a good day are you, Robbie?"_

A mirthless laugh sounded. "_You have no idea. Decreasing gliding altitude until visual is made."_

_"Copy that, Robbie. Just be careful."_

Nearly thirty seconds of silence passed before Nightwing's voice came again. _"Visual made, Kevin. I can see the coast line. It's - uh - well, it's kind of far and I'm still dropping."_

_"I know, Robbie. I'm going to have you change your course. We've cleared the area and you've got a green light all the way to Burrs Strip, it's a private airfield just south of Miami. You're about twenty knots closer and should be able to make it if you can maintain your gliding decent."_

_"Just tell me what to point this bird at."_

_"Okay. The tower at Burrs is going to light its beacon. Normally it would ping your radar, but instead just look for the red beam of light."_

_"I got it. Adjusting course."_

_"Easy there, Robbie. Tilt the nose of the plane up a couple of degrees... that's perfect. You've got a couple of minutes of gliding before we get you landed."_

_"You mean a belly landing. I don't have any landing gear and without electrical I'm not going to have any."_

_"You'll be fine, Robbie. I promise you."_

_"Yeah, heard that bef-" _Nightwing was cut off with a grunt of pain and the mike went silent.

_"Robbie? Robbie, what happened! Whiskey Papa, do you copy?! Come on, kid! Robbie!" _

Robin shut off the recoding. "That's the last of it. The black box recorded a couple of sudden drops in altitude and one last dive that shaved nearly five thousand feet off in a matter of seconds."

"Deathstroke must have regained consciousness and they fought again. The dive probably threw the mercenary into the glass and knocked him out again."

"Obviously, Nightwing was able to land the plane and then took off before emergency crews arrived on scene."

Batman nodded his head once and exited the plane, Robin right behind him. "Deathstroke was found unconscious in the co-pilot's seat, tied to it with the safety harness. There was a car reported stolen about three miles from Burrs Strip and the car was found not far from Panama City where it had ran out of gas."

Robin was frowning as shot his grappling ling and followed Batman up onto the roof of the hangar where the Bat-Jet was hidden. "Panama City? Isn't that where-"

"Where Haly's Circus's winter camp is located," Batman confirmed, fingering his belt and opening the hatch to the jet, "and where a second vehicle theft was reported by Harry Smith on the morning of the first. Harry was a clown with the company until a few years ago when he retired from performing and took up the duties as the camp's caretaker."

"Think it was Nightwing?" the young hero asked anxiously as he climbed into the rear seat.

"Possibly, though I think the truck was given to him and not actually stolen." Batman entered the jet and the hatched sealed behind him. He tapped a few codes into the jet's computer and a second screen lit up in front of Robin, revealing several open files. "The vehicle was found abandoned on the 98 Highway just outside of Hattiesburg, Mississippi. There was no damage to it and the keys were inside the ignition; it had run out of fuel."

"So Harry Smith helped him out?" Robin speculated while Batman powered up the jet, scanning the files. "Where would he go next?"

"Anywhere," Bruce growled his frustration. "I've been running this program for two days. I'm using a facial recognition program through any available camera network in Florida and the surrounding states. I've got him hotwiring the car three miles from the airstrip two nights ago, but I lost him on the interstate. The car was found just north of St. Andrews Bay which is eight miles from Panama City. I've also been scanning for any hits to any of Nightwing's known aliases - like Robbie Malone - but those are only the ones I'm aware of."

"Aqualad told us he'd been using the Renegade persona for more than a year before..." the boy trailed off, unwilling to comment on the months they had thought Dick dead.

Batman keyed in another code and a file opened that looked like a bank statement. "When he turned eighteen he gained access to the money he inherited from his parents. It was a small life insurance policy, only fifty thousand dollars, but I'd invested it for him for almost nine years. He had nearly two million dollars in ready funds." The young man behind him whistled as Batman continued. "Unlike the trust fund I set up for him, which he can claim when he's twenty-one, this one didn't require an accounting of his spending. In the year before his went undercover as Renegade, he withdrew nearly all of it. It would be more than enough to set up bolt holes and stashes across the country and I'd never be the wiser."

"So what do we do?" Robin asked quietly.

Batman closed down the files and took the jet into the air. "There's not much we can do. If Nightwing doesn't want to be found he won't be."

**WATCHTOWER**

**JULY 16, 21:00 EST**

Kaldur stood at the view window, staring down at the bright blue planet below. He had reluctantly taken back leadership of the Team, feeling odd about being back with his friends after more than two years as enemies. Yes, he had been playing a part, but they had come to blows time and again in their endeavours to stop the Reach and the Light from controlling the Earth.

With the War World gone, the remaining Reach aliens being hunted down by law enforcement agencies around the world, and the remnants of the Light licking their collective wounds, the Team's primary focus had been trying to find Nightwing. They had no more success than the Batman had, and now he, along with the senior members of the Team, had been called up to the Watchtower for a debriefing.

It promised to be a long meeting.

"Kaldur, it's time."

Turning away from the glass, suppressing the sigh that threatened to escape his control, he faced his mentor and King. The two Atlanteans moved through the space station in companionable silence and arrived in the Founder's room where the others gathered.

Batman, Batgirl and Robin were already there, speaking quietly apart from the rest. Superman and Superboy were joined by Wonder Woman, The Flash and their counterparts on the Team. Wally was standing with Artemis, though there was a distance between the couple that did not sit well with Kaldur'ahm. The blonde's face was drawn in a tight scowl and Wally almost seemed resigned to something unpleasant. Green and Red Arrow were sitting next to Black Canary and Zatanna, the Martians a few seats down holding a silent conversation between them.

Superman moved to the head of the table and the rest moved to their appropriate spots. Batman and his fellow Bats spoke a moment longer before taking their seats.

The Man of Steel was grim and held the room's attention a few seconds before speaking. "Deathstroke has escaped police custody."

There was no preparing any of them for that statement, although watching the Bats, Kaldur could see they already knew this information. The others were a mixture of reactions, some stunned, others angry, but most showed their worry.

"Have we had any luck finding Nightwing?" Wonder Woman asked.

Black Canary shook her head. "The Team has been following what leads we had, but they've all come up empty."

"We had thought we found him in Seattle, Washington" Kaldur spoke up strongly. "However, that too was a dead end."

"He's gone to ground," Batman told the gathering. "Ever known alias, every possible and logical bolthole, has been investigated, and nothing has turned up. We won't find him."

"Which means Deathstroke won't find him," Artemis pointed out. "You three know him best and if he's managed to hide from you..."

"Is there any reason to believe Deathstroke will try to find him?" Miss Martian asked hopefully. "He did just escape from prison; he'll want to leave the country wouldn't he?"

"Deathstroke will want his vengeance." Kaldur shook his head. "He will spare no expense and use every contact in worlds we do not travel to find Nightwing."

"So why is he hiding in the first place?" Superboy asked with a frustrated growl. "We're his friends, his allies. Why is he hiding from us?"

"Because we didn't give him reason not to," Wally responded dejectedly. "I've looked back at that night on Santa Prisca, and it has been pointed out to me-" he glanced at Artemis who was scowling again. "-that we basically just handed him over to Deathstroke."

This had everyone frowning, but it was Red Arrow who asked the question. "Why say that?"

"Think about it, Roy," Kid Flash sighed. "We say there wasn't time to inform him of the plan, but there was two days after Kaldur contacted us that he could have tried to make contact with Nightwing. Barring that, once they showed up how hard would it have been for M'gann to link up with him and tell him then? Or during the fight; how many of us bothered even looking for him let alone trying to get to him? And then we had to have the fact that he and Deathstroke were missing pointed out to us before we even noticed!"

Roy was seething, whether from rage or guilt was anyone's guess. "We had every right-"

"No we didn't!" Wally slapped his hand on the table and shot to his feet. "No one else at this table knew him like you, me and Kaldur! Hell, I doubt even Batman knows half the crap we got into as kids! What kind of position did Nightwing have to be in that he would be okay with what he did to us?!"

"He was never okay with it." Kaldur said from where he sat, the three friends nearly oblivious to the others around them. "That night in Blüdhaven may have injured you, but it destroyed him. After that night he may have finally been counted as one of the Light, a position we needed him to hold before the plan could carry forth, but it cost him dearly. He became more Renegade than Nightwing, and he was reckless with his own safety and life."

"He didn't think he could come back from it," Robin injected himself into their conversation, drawing every eye to the youngest hero there. "Faking his death, each of us dealing with the pain of his loss, and playing his role as Renegade - someone who worked for the Light, kidnapped meta-kids, fought and beat us at every turn - and what he did to KF and Red; he didn't think we'd ever accept his reasoning."

"His guilt is why he hides," Batman agreed. "And why we won't find him until he can get past what he had to do to stop the Reach and the Light."

"Which he won't do until he knows we can accept and look past what he did," Batgirl added.

"And to do that we have to find him," The Flash shook his head.

Superman held up his hand and everyone quieted down. "With things getting back to normal, now that the Reach has been dealt with, we need to get back to business as usual. Patrols need to be maintained, emergency frequencies monitored; the people need to see the Justice League is here to keep them safe like they always have."

Batman stood up with a scowl, one angrier than his norm. "You're telling me to stop looking for Nightwing."

"No," Superman shook his head. "No, I'm telling you that looking for him can no longer be our top priority. From your own reports you say that he's safe and unharmed and out of Deathstroke's reach. He's hiding from us, Batman. We'll only find him when he's ready."

"He won't know Deathstroke has escaped!" Batgirl snapped. "The authorities aren't going to let his escape get into the media. He'll be blindsided!"

"The decision stands," Superman said with finality. "Now, I need reports on recovery and clean up after the deactivation of the Reach's Red Devices."

Kaldur watched as Batman turned and stalked from the meeting room; Batgirl and Robin wasted no time in following their mentor. Kid Flash and Artemis, after sharing a brief glance with the Flash, rose from their seat and weren't far behind.

Superman sighed. "Kaldur, the Team's report?"

The young Atlantean turned his attention back to the head of the League, though he could not deny the desire to get up and follow the Batman as well.

**LAS VEGAS, NEVADA**

**AUGUST 12, 00:25 PST**

He'd been naive to think he could stop running; to think that he was far enough away to find a place and try to find a life. He'd barely been in Vegas three weeks but he had a one bedroom apartment not far from the Treasure Island Casino & Hotel where he worked as a trapeze aerialist in the Cirque De Soleil performance of Mystère. He had gotten a job as an usher but only worked the floor two nights before one of the performers hurt his back during rehearsal. The understudy had quit the day before leaving them scrambling for a replacement. They hadn't believed him, at first, when he mentioned he use to be an Aerialist. But then he'd climbed the trap and proved it.

God, it had felt good to fly like that again!

Working with the other guys in the troop had brought back so many memories of training with his family. It hurt, remembering them, but time had dulled the ache and he remembered to good times more than That Night.

The routine was intricate, stunning, and, with a dozen men in the air at a time, more than a little dangerous. If one of them was off, even a fraction of a second or degree, it could send someone falling the thirty feet to the stage below. There was some give to the floor, allowing for the tumble and acrobatic acts, but the injuries could still prove fatal. So they practiced and he blended in flawlessly and effortlessly with the others.

Until tonight's performance.

One of the stage hands had shown them a video the director was trying to have removed from YouTube. It showed the troop during rehearsal only a few days ago, the day the producers had allowed some rich gymnast to host her twelfth birthday party with a handful of her friends back stage. They had watched the afternoon practice, and were then allowed to try the trap overseen by the performers. It had been an interesting few hours, especially with the little girl being nothing more than a spoiled diva-wanna-be.

Apparently, they'd been filmed by one of the other guests.

So tonight he'd been distracted. The anxiety at being found because his face - even with the dyed auburn hair, brown contact lenses, and false glasses - was out there was almost too much for him. He had been wobbly during the first performance and nearly missed the outstretched hand of his catcher. In between shows, the Captain of the troop had asked him about it because he never missed. Never! He admitted to not feeling well but would take a quick break before the second show and would be fine to fly again. He really had no choice as they still had yet to find an understudy who could do the routine. So he calmed himself, convinced himself that the video had only been online for a few days and with barely a thousand views and no one would see it before he could disappear, and flew the second show perfectly.

And then he saw him.

There was no denying who it was sitting in the front row. The hair, the patch...

Deathstroke had found him.

He bolted before the final curtain call and was on his cycle without removing the stage make-up that covered his face and torso. In this get up they all looked alike, and he hoped that would buy him the time he needed to get back to his apartment to grab his things and get out of Vegas.

Inside the small apartment, he breathed a little easier as he stripped off the costume and threw on a pair of sweats. He had a bag already packed and ready to go in his closet and he grabbed it from his bedroom. Inside was a disposable cell phone and he took it out, powering it up before dropping the bag beside the exit. He went into the bathroom, opened the cabinet hidden behind the mirror, and stared at the syringe sitting on the top shelf. With Deathstroke so close, he had no choice. Not if he wanted to survive.

Setting the phone on the edge of the sink he fingered the only number in the autodial and flicked it over to speaker. He listened to it ring while he grabbed the syringe and removed the cap from the needle. He looked up at the unfamiliar face reflected back at him in the mirror before he jabbed the needle into his neck at the base of his skull. He hissed through his teeth as he pressed the plunger and the viscous fluid flowed into his body.

The ringing stopped with a click, followed by a second a moment later, and he glanced down at the phone. The call had connected but there was no one there; at least no one speaking.

"He's found me," he said to the dead air, knowing that it was being received.

_"Where?"_

The sound of Batman's voice sent a surge of regret and longing through him that nearly took his breath away. The syringe slipped from his hand and slid to the bottom of the sink as he gripped he porcelain with white-knuckled fists and clenched his eyes shut. It had been so long since he'd heard that voice; so strong and comforting even as it growled menacingly across the airwaves. He inhaled shakily and answered. "Vegas."

_"Can you get to the safe house?"_

"Possibly, but I don't want to lead him there. I'm only about thirty minutes ahead of him."

"Or less."

The words had his eyes flaring open a heartbeat before a gauntleted fist latched onto his hair and slammed his head forward into the mirror. Pain exploded across his forehead with the glass and the sudden blow stunned him, allowing Deathstroke to drag him by his scalp out of the tiny bathroom and fling him to the living room floor.

With blood dripping down his face he looked up at the mercenary's masked face with growing dread. As the killer approached, he could see the look of sheer rage burning in the single orb visible behind the mask.

**LAS VEGAS, NEVADA**

**AUGUST 12, 03:30 PST**

The patio door was already open, the curtains billowing in the slight breeze, and the dark-clad figure slid effortlessly into the room. He was followed by three other shadowed figures and without a word they spread out through the apartment. It was a disaster. Furniture was broken or over turned, appliances were strewn about the kitchen area, cracks and holes covered parts of the drywall, and blood stained the carpet and walls.

"We're too late," Artemis said quietly as they took in the rooms.

Kid Flash was scowling as he ran a gloved hand down the wall next to a spray of blood. "He put up one hell of a fight."

Robin was pale as he looked around the carnage in the living room. "Is he dead?"

"If he was killed here, his body would be here," Batman growled, as he stalked into the bedroom.

Robin nodded and entered the bathroom. "His stuff is still here," he hollered to the others from inside the tiny room. "I know Deathstroke caught him unaware, but I was hoping-"

The pair of heroes searching through the living room stopped when the Boy Wonder cut himself off.

"Rob?" Kid Flash called as he and Artemis started toward the bathroom.

"Batman," Robin came back into the living room with something in his hand. "I found something."

The Dark Knight swept out of the bedroom and approached his partner. He took the syringe from the younger hero's hands and looked at it. It was rather ordinary looking, though the needle was larger and wider than one might have expected. The glass vial had a series of numbers written on its side.

"Holy shit!" Kid Flash's eyes went wide when he saw it and sped next to Robin, lifting the boy's arm up and moving aside the cover to the wrist-computer. "He did it!"

Everyone was staring at him incredulously. "Did what?" Robin demanded, annoyed at the angle his arm was being held.

"Those numbers on the vial," Kid Flash's fingers moved quickly over the tiny keypad, "are a GPS tracking frequency."

Artemis gasped. "He did it?"

"Did what?" Batman snarled and the redhead blanched.

"A couple years ago," Kid Flash explained, "Nightwing and I were designing a bio-electronic tracking device that could be injected into the body at the base of the skull. It would adhere itself to the spine and was powered by the body's own electrical impulses. Because of that, and because of its size, it would be missed by most - if not all - scans. No one would be able to find it unless they were looking for it specifically, and knew where to look."

Robin looked impressed. "That would have been handy with all the Reach abductions."

Artemis shook her head while Kid went back to imputing code into the small computer. "It was never finished. At least, I never thought it was. It was only a month or so later that Kid and I went into retirement."

"It also had a half-life of two days," Kid continued for the archer. "The body's natural defenses would have begun attacking the foreign body and the tracker would start to dissolve after forty-eight hours, give or take. Within three days you'd have lost the signal, and after four the thing would be gone."

"You're saying he injected this tracker into his own head?" Robin questioned doubtfully. "Why? He's been running from us as much as Deathstroke for months!"

"Deathstroke had his scent," Batman reminded the young hero grimly. "That's why he called; to give us a jumping point on finding him if he couldn't evade Deathstroke."

The lone female of the group looked around at the destroyed apartment. "By the looks of things, I'd say he didn't."

"It also serves two purposes," Kid continued for the archer. "Not only can we track him but, because it's powered by the body-"

"You can monitor his health," Batman interrupted as he figured it out. "It broadcasts as long as he's alive."

Kid Flash nodded and a second later the light blue holographic screen of Robin's computer was projected. A topical map or Nevada appeared, zooming in on Vegas before panning south of the city; a blinking white dot stationary in the desert.

"He's an hour southeast from here in the Eldorado Canyon."

**NEVADA DESERT**

**AUGUST 12, 03:30 PST**

The scream tore through his throat, the most recent in a long line of screams as the ruthless man in front of him expressed his displeasure. There wasn't a part of Dick that wasn't bruised, broken, or bloodied and every bit of him hurt. Pain had become a constant and Deathstroke was, if nothing else, a master at causing pain.

When he lost consciousness in his apartment, Dick didn't think he'd ever wake again. After training and working with Deathstroke for months, he should have known he wouldn't be that lucky. Coming to as he was being lifted out of the back of a SUV, bound cruelly with razor-wire, had only been the beginning. His arms and torso were a mass of jagged cuts from the wire that wrapped around his chest and wrists and the body paint had been long replaced by the blood seeping from the wounds. Being strung up with the same wire to the exposed ceiling crossbeams in an abandoned cabin, the night sky visible overhead through them missing parts of the roof, was an unpleasant experience to say the least. The hours following hadn't been any better.

Deathstroke hadn't said a word since their arrival, and Dick had watch as the one-eyed mercenary had removed his facemask and got to work. He started with the runaway hero's right leg; shattering each of the bones in his foot with a hammer before moving up to the knee where the patella was fractured with a single blow of the tool. The left foot and knee were next, and Dick hadn't been able to put any weight onto his legs since, causing the deadly wire binding his arms and wrists above his head to slice into his already bloodied flesh.

Done with the hammer, the man had moved on to the knife; cutting and carving into Dick's bare chest and back, leaving rivulets of blood trailing down his body and dripping onto the dirt floor. The timing between each swipe of the blade was made to ensure the pain from the first had diminished before the next came.

And then Deathstroke had, literally, poured salt on his wounds.

His body aflame with pain, he screamed into the night, barely noticing the tears streaking through the dried blood on his face, and his body writhing in its bindings causing even more damage to his arms and wrists.

Through it all, Deathstroke watched him stoically and clinically. When he saw his captive limp and sobbing in his bindings, he put aside the tools and stood before the broken hero. "I am not an unreasonable man," he spoke smoothly, as he slipped his armored gloves from his hands.

Gripping the teenager's chin between his fingers, he lifted Dick's head until they were face to face. "You trained with me once; followed me and stood at my side. We were great together. I could be convinced to accept that again."

Reigning in his despair, Dick gathered his courage and spat a mouthful of blood and saliva straight into the mercenary's good eye.

Momentarily blinded, Deathstroke growled and retaliated with a back-hand across Dick's face. Unable to support himself, Dick swung with the momentum of the blow; his broken feet dragging in the dirt while he cried out as the razor-wire dragged through his flesh, some grinding against the bones of his arms.

A heavy hand around his throat stilled his movement and cut off his breathing and he found himself staring into the rage-filled eye of the assassin. "You betrayed me, Boy!" Deathstroke roared. "I gave you everything! I trusted you! And you lied and betrayed me!"

With an aggravated shove, Dick was swinging again when Deathstroke released him and stalked to the other side of the tiny cabin. He was coughing and choking on the ragged breathes he took in. The pain was beginning to fade and he felt the chill of the desert night cooling his battered body. He watched the mercenary with a satisfied sneer. "You... gave me... what I wanted..." he gasped, finding it hard to catch his breath. "I played you... and you made... it easy..."

"You were mine!" Deathstroke roared and pulled a vicious looking dagger from his gear, throwing it through the air without pause.

The pain he expected never came.

Instead, Dick's fading vision was blocked by a figure clad in crimson with the knife now held in his hand. Half a second later he was joined by another figure in gold. Both stood between Deathstroke and his prisoner and though Dick couldn't see their faces he could practically feel the rage flowing off them.

Deathstroke's surprise showed on his face for a moment before he was reaching for the sword across his back. Only his wrist was caught in an unforgiving grip - the bones grinding together and snapping as if they were toothpicks - and Dick felt vindicated when he saw the cringe on the mercenary's face at the voice that resounded through the still cabin.

"He's ours!" Superman snarled before swinging once and his fist sent the mercenary to the ground.

"Oh god," Kid Flash breathed when he spun around to see his best friend.

Bruised, bloodied, and broken, Dick was aware that he was a mess. He was still conscious though it wouldn't be for long. A glare from Superman had the wire keeping Dick upright melting and collapsing into The Flash's arms. He cried out as the movement sent spears of pain through his legs and the other man's arms rubbed the grains of salt further into his wounds. The numbness he had started to feel fled in the face of new pain and he was panting once more for breath as he was shifted into Superman's arms.

He was vaguely aware of the Flash mentioning the razor-wire and something about an artery, but he was falling too quickly into the black. The last he knew was Kid Flash's desperate plea.

"Hold on, Dick!"

**WATCHTOWER**

**AUGUST 13, 17:30 EST**

This was the part that had him regretting his decision to allow Robin to become part of his night life. He never questioned bringing Dick Grayson into his home, into his life as Bruce Wayne, but being Batman was dangerous, even deadly. Letting Robin join him had been a blessing and a curse, with the latter never more evident than moments like this one: sitting beside a hospital bed, waiting for the boy who was his son to wake up from injuries that had nearly claimed his life.

The state of the apartment in Vegas was evidence of a fierce fight, but the bruises covering most of Dick's body - at least the parts Batman could see - proved that Deathstroke had taken great pleasure in beating the boy into submission. His arms and torso were covered in bandages, and there was another thick pad of gauze secured over the right side of the boy's forehead and temple. He knew, hidden behind the bandages, that there was nearly three hundred stitches that had been needed to close the dozens of wounds.

Worst of all was his legs; both encased from the thigh down in a framework of pins and braces to hold the shattered bones of his knees and feet in place while they healed. The surgery to repair the damaged limbs had been long and arduous, compounded by the fact that he had lost so much blood even before the artery in his right arm had been severed.

Even with Superman's speed and flight, it had been a near thing. By the time the Man of Steel had got Dick to a Zeta Beam and up to the Watchtower, the young hero had been in the beginning stages of a of a Class IV Hemorrhage. He had lost more than forty percent of his blood volume and Dr. Mid-Nite and Mr. Terrific had needed nearly six units of blood while they worked to stabilize Nightwing enough for surgery. As it was, the genius physicians had to resuscitate the boy twice on the operating table and needed another two units of blood, but Nightwing would survive.

Sitting in the dimly lit room, it took all of Batman's control not to storm down the to the League holding facility where they had Deathstroke sequestered for the time being. There was still some debate on what to do with the assassin, given his propensity for escaping, and Batman was all for ripping out the man's spine and letting him live the rest of his life as a vegetable for what he'd done to Dick.

While both doctors were confident that he would regain full mobility of his legs, there was a chance of permanent damage that could hinder, if not cripple, the young acrobat. They wouldn't know until Dick started the long road to rehab, but the thought of him being unable to leap and fly about as he had been born to do sent a stab of fury lancing through the Batman's heart. He would see Deathstroke pay in kind.

But not right now.

In the end it was not that hard to remain where he was, sitting next to Dick's bedside watching for the smallest sign that the boy was about to wake. Batman hadn't left the room since he'd been brought in nearly twenty-four hours ago and he wouldn't until he saw for himself that his son was going to be alright. It was a far better vigil than the last one he had held over Dick's body.

When he had returned from Rimbor with the others he had been utterly exhausted. But seeing Batgirl and Robin, hearing his youngest protégé telling him for the second time in less than a year that he had lost a son... Batman had never thought his heart could be ripped out of his chest with just words. But those two words had done just that.

_"He's dead." _

Even now, those words rang through his head. He'd heard them constantly over the five weeks from his return - until the DNA confirmation that Renegade was Dick. He had had his suspicions; how could he not? The way the criminal had moved, how he talked with a familiar lilt of the heavy Russian accent that Batman remembered from a little boy whose native language was also Eastern European... So many little things that had him doubting his own senses when he looked at the body cryogenically frozen in the Batcave.

In Vegas, having realized that Dick had been in the assassin's clutches for hours already, Batman had felt that the urgency of the situation warranted a swifter resolution than he could provide. While he loathed not being the one to race to Dick's rescue, Superman and the Flash had been more than eager to speed to the abandoned mine where Deathstroke had taken Nightwing. Kid Flash had wasted no time catching up to his uncle, but when the young speedster had radioed Batman and told him to get to the nearest Zeta Port those two words screamed through his mind.

_"He's dead."_

The fact that he lost the bio-tracker's signal when Superman took Dick through the Zeta actually stole the breath from him. Had he found his son only to lose him?

By the time Batman, Robin, and Artemis made it to the Zeta Port in Star City and up to the Watchtower, Dick had already been under Dr. Mid-Nite's care for more than an hour. The fact that he was being assisted by Mr. Terrific sent a bolt of fear through the Dark Knight and Superman had to remove him from the Med Bay when he had tried to burst into the room where Dick had crashed.

_"He's dead."_

The words spoken three months ago clawed at his soul, and only Superman's superior speed and strength kept him away from his son's side. That, and that the Kryptonian was more than willing to use his super-hearing to give him updates on Dick's condition. It was several hours later that Dick was finally moved from the surgical suite to a room where he could recover.

When Mr. Terrific spoke to Batman about accelerating Dick's healing, Batman was torn. He could ease his former partner's pain, lessen his recovery time and need for physical therapy, but to what end? Batman has no doubt that once Dick could move, he'd run again.

Dick had run from Deathstroke in Miami, but Batman honestly thought the boy would have come home. When the hours turned into days though, he had to look again at everything that Renegade had done. From the time before Batman had left for Rimbor - just how long had Nightwing and Aqualad been planning this? - Renegade had been a frightening whisper in the underworld. He was vicious, merciless, a brilliant psychopath who took pleasure in torturing and tormenting his victims. Looking at him on paper, Batman could see the influences of Joker and Two-Face; see how Renegade's psychosis, while significantly tamer, had been based off the two most dangerous rogues Dick had ever faced. While he had never killed, Renegade had come damn close on more than a dozen occasions. It was no real surprise that he had garnered the attention of the world's deadliest assassin.

And even less of a surprise that Dick, still just a boy of nineteen, had felt that he couldn't come home once the truth was known.

But Batman, out of all the Heroes of the League of the Team, could understand and respect everything his first partner had done. Had he been here, as he should have been, he liked to believe that Nightwing would have confided in him. There was a reason why deep-cover operatives had a handler; someone that could be an anchor to their real identity and keep them from delving too far into their assumed persona. Nightwing had been that, initially, for Aqualad but once they had been forced to fake Nightwing's death they had both lost that key support. It would take months, if not longer, for Aqualad to reacclimatise to life with the League. Batman couldn't help but wonder how long would it take for Nightwing.

Recovering from Deathstroke's torture would be trying enough.

A low moan, the first sound inside the room in hours, drew Batman from his thoughts and he looked to the shifting body on the bed. He rose swiftly to his feet to stand next to the bedside and reached out with a gauntlet-less hand. He gingerly cupped the un-bandaged side of Dick's face, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips when the young man's head leaned into the touch.

"Bruce..." Dick groaned and his eyelids were struggling to open.

"I'm here, Dick." With a habitual glance around the room, only to find no one else there, Batman pushed back the cowl of his costume with his free hand. Dick needed his father right now, not his mentor. "Easy does it, don't force it." It took a few seconds longer, but familiar blue eyes opened and the relief that flooded through Bruce had the father in him grinning. "Hey stranger."

"I-" The voice was rough, dry, and without a second through Bruce was hurrying to the bathroom for a glass of tepid water from the sink. He adjusted the head of the bed so that Dick was sitting up and helped his injured bird take a few small sips before Dick shook his head at any more. His eyes, still glassy from the pain medication, looked away from Bruce's with no small amount of fear and guilt. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't!" Bruce cut in smoothly, having expected exactly this.

"You don't know," Dick persisted, only for his father to interrupt him again.

"I know, Dick." Bruce set aside the glass and positioned himself on the edge of the bad, careful not to jostle the mattress in the slightest. He gently placed his fingers on the younger man's cheek and slowly urged Dick's head to turn until they were face to face. He could see the desire to turn away in his son's eyes and it was the first time ever that Dick couldn't meet his gaze. "I know everything Renegade did before, during, and after my time on Rimbor. I know Aqualad defected to Black Manta's nearly two years ago and Renegade made his first appearance seven weeks later. I know that you, and he, had been planning this for a lot longer than any of us imagined. There are a lot of things I do know, Dick, and trust me we will be having several conversations about that at a later date. Right now, what I want to know is why did you run? After escaping Deathstroke in Miami, why didn't you come home? Why didn't you come to me?"

Dick sighed and pulled his head away from Bruce's tender hold. He seemed to be collecting his thoughts so the older man didn't press him.

"I hadn't planned on running," the young man admitted with a sigh of exhaustion. "On Santa Prisca, when my identity was revealed, I felt... relieved. Aqualad had severed the ties between the Reach and Light, and without each another they would be no match for the League, especially since I knew that you and the others were back from Rimbor by then. I knew they would kill me, just like I thought they had Aqualad, and I... I was okay with that. But then Kaldur wasn't dead and it turned out to be one big set up for the bad guys.

"When KF and Red showed up... When I saw them, that's when I knew I couldn't go back. What I did to them; yes, it got me in tight with the Light and they finally stopped questioning Aqualad's and Renegade's loyalties, but I knew neither one would ever forgive me for what I did to them. When Deathstroke took me out of the cavern... I let him."

That surprised Bruce and he ground out, "What?!"

Dick flinched but answered. "I could have fought him, I could have cried for help, I could have done any number of things before he got me onto that plane, but I didn't. I let him take me off that Island, Bruce, and when I saw my chance, I took it and ran."

"Why?"

For the first time since their conversation began, Dick finally met Bruce's eyes. "Because, if being Renegade taught me anything it's that I'm no hero."

"Then neither am I," Bruce stated flatly. Dick stared at him incredulously and opened his mouth to speak but Bruce gently lay his hand over the boy's mouth. "Dick, you are not the only person who's gone too deep undercover and lost themselves. It happens to everyone: vice cops, FBI, Heroes, hell - I put a man in a coma one of the first times I went undercover as Matches."

He moved his hand from Dick's mouth and reached around to lightly grip the back of his neck. "I don't know why you had to do what you did, but I do know you. You love those two idiots like brothers and nothing - Nothing! - could have made you hurt them the way you did unless you had no other recourse. Are they angry? Not anymore. Will they understand? Probably. Will they forgive you? Absolutely!"

"But I-" Dick clenched his eyes shut but not before Bruce saw the moisture pooling at their edges.

"But nothing," the older man insisted. "Dick, I know everything you did; every theft, every abduction, every hurt inflicted. I also know that if you hadn't, we would not have won. You gave up your friends, your team, your family, your _life_. You sacrificed everything so that they, and the rest of the world, would stand a chance against the Reach and the Light! If that doesn't make you a hero, Son, then I don't know what will! Not since you first put on the uniform as Robin have I been as proud of you as I am right now!"

Battered and bandaged arms wrapped around Bruce's armored frame and Dick choked back a sob. The father just held his son tight as the young man fought to regain control. If a tear or two escaped, who was Bruce to say anything; he was fighting back his own overwhelming emotions at being able to finally hold his boy after so long thinking him dead only to find him in enemy hands. Dick was alive and that was all that mattered.

Injuries, and emotional exhaustion, won out a few moments later and Dick reluctantly released his hold on Bruce and lay back on his bad. He eyes were bloodshot but the fear and guilt were all but gone. "I want to go home."

"I'll talk to Dr. Mid-Nite about getting you transferred to the house. I know Alfred would love to have you back and Tim - well, Tim will undoubtedly be answering your every beck and call if we allow it."

Dick snorted and a weary grin played across his lips. "I'll promise not to abuse his generosity too badly."

Bruce stood from the mattress and slid his cowl back into place. Reaching into his belt he pulled out a small swath of blue fabric and held it out for the other man. Dick stared at it for a moment, tentatively reaching out for it. When Batman didn't retract it, he took the offered mask and settled it on the bridge of his nose with unconscious ease.

Batman allowed a faint grin to show. "Welcome back, Nightwing."

* * *

**Quote from King Lear by William Shakespeare


End file.
